'Knotting. Common through the seventeenth century, this form of torture involved tying a stick into the condemned witch's hair and twisting it tighter and tighter. When the Inquisitor no longer had the strength to twist, he would grasp the victim's head or fasten it in a holding device until burly men could take over the ch.o.r.e. The scalp would often be ripped away.'

Simon wondered why the cops hadn't found this out themselves. Tomasky had already researched knotting, according to Sanderson. The police were being inept or concealing things from him. Keeping elements of the case to themselves. It was hardly unknown.

He leaned to his left and wrote a little note in his pad. A reminder. Then he gazed back at the screen. What about the woman on Foula? With her face slashed into ribbons? Simon paged through a list of witch tortures: the sheer horror of them gave him pause. The Spanish Spider, squa.s.sation, the Judas chair, the shinvice, quartering by horses, the Bootikens, the Pear of Anguish the Pear of Anguish? the Pear of Anguish? and then, at last, he found it. and then, at last, he found it.

Cutting.

The reason he hadn't instantly found this torture was because it wasn't called cutting. cutting. The torture inflicted on the Foula victim was apparently termed 'scoring round the mouth'. And it was simply described: the witch was methodically slashed around the lips and cheek with a knife, until the face was 'a ma.s.s of appalling cuts; the skin shredded from the facial bones; the pain of this superbly cruel torture was sometimes sufficient to render the victim unconscious.' The torture inflicted on the Foula victim was apparently termed 'scoring round the mouth'. And it was simply described: the witch was methodically slashed around the lips and cheek with a knife, until the face was 'a ma.s.s of appalling cuts; the skin shredded from the facial bones; the pain of this superbly cruel torture was sometimes sufficient to render the victim unconscious.'

Simon reached for his coffee, but it was undrinkably cold, so he sat for several minutes in the quietness of his study wondering what he had discovered this morning. He wasn't quite sure.

Because it didn't compute; nothing nothing computed. The three murders had happened in different corners of the country, yet all three of the lonely people were of Basque Pyrenean origin; two of the murders involved elements of witch torture. But there was no evidence that these lonesome souls were actually 'witches' whatever that might mean. computed. The three murders had happened in different corners of the country, yet all three of the lonely people were of Basque Pyrenean origin; two of the murders involved elements of witch torture. But there was no evidence that these lonesome souls were actually 'witches' whatever that might mean.

Moreover, the two tortured victims had also suffered a deformity: syndactyly, a malformation of the fingers and toes common in isolated inbred mountain communities such as the Pyrenees. In the South of France.

Simon felt like a small child looking at a bright TV, too close to the screen: he could see the colours of the pixels, the details were implied, but he was too near to the crackling gla.s.s to get a sense of the overall image.

So he needed to sit back. Take a more objective position.

He went through the other facts that they possessed.

The manner of the murders was clinical and efficient, despite the lurid elements of torture. The killer or killers on Foula must have been very well equipped and no one had seen them come or go, by some kind of dinghy perhaps. They had presumably arrived by boat in the darkness, gone straight to Julie Charpentier's house, and tortured and killed her. Then they left the island, quitting the scene before sunrise.

The Primrose Hill case showed similar proficiency and forethought, and, likewise, a clinical garrotting followed the most extreme torture. There had been no torture involved in the slaying in Windsor, but the murder had been equally efficient. These killings were, therefore, not being perpetrated by teenage Goths high on glue, that was pretty certain. It was someone, or some agency with a definite plan of action.

And then there was the third complicating circ.u.mstance. A truly interesting circ.u.mstance. One of the women had recently been pestered by a young geneticist named Angus Nairn who was trying to carry out blood tests.

And this geneticist had recently disappeared.

That was the most eye-opening result of Simon's research earlier in the week. He'd Googled 'Angus Nairn' as soon as he'd got back from Scotland and it turned out this man, Nairn, was himself the subject of a mystery. Eight weeks ago he had vanished.

Nairn had been working at a private London research inst.i.tute called GenoMap, a research organization dedicated to the study of 'genomic diversity'. The laboratory had closed in some controversy about three months back, and soon afterwards Nairn had just...disappeared. No one knew where he was. His parents, his ex colleagues at the lab, his friends. n.o.body.

Of course it was possible that the Nairn disappearance was an entire coincidence. Maybe his involvement with Charpentier was just a thing. thing. And yet something said this was surely not the case: the links were half-formed, but a link was faintly detectable. Genetics, deformity, the Pyrenees, the Basques, blood tests...He just needed time out to grasp the entire chain. And yet something said this was surely not the case: the links were half-formed, but a link was faintly detectable. Genetics, deformity, the Pyrenees, the Basques, blood tests...He just needed time out to grasp the entire chain.

Checking his watch, Simon grabbed his jacket. It was noon and he had a fairly ghastly appointment, an onerous duty to fulfil.

Throwing himself in the car, he headed for the far outskirts of London where the orbital motorways met the first scruffy farms and the closely mowed golf courses. And the acres of plush greenery that surrounded the St Hilary Mental Health Inst.i.tution.

Forty minutes after leaving his home, the journalist was watching a team of schizophrenics play football.

If Simon had not known what he was seeing madmen kicking a ball then he might never have guessed what was happening. It was only when he got close, right to the touchline, that it became evident that there was something strange about this kickabout. Many of the players had a notable stiffness in their movements. The goalkeeper was crawling across the penalty area for no apparent reason. And a defender was arguing, vehemently and poignantly, with the corner flag.

'Simon!'

Doctor Fanthorpe, the deputy clinical psychiatrist, waved Simon's way and ran across the pitch to say h.e.l.lo.

The 'football cure' was Fanthorpe's pet project. Bill Fanthorpe's idea was that it helped to socialize seriously detached psychotics to play as a team and it gave them a reward when they scored a goal, helping with low self-esteem. Moreover, the exercise kept down the weight of the patients: so many of the mentally ill were fat.

'Hi, Bill.'

The doctor smiled; he was wearing shorts maybe three sizes too large.

'I saw your articles in the Telegraph Telegraph. Extraordinary story. The Basque murders!'

'Yes...It is rather odd. Anyway, ah, how's Tim, is he...?'

Bill was still panting from the football.

'He's...OK. We had some fitting last week but this week it's not been so bad. Not so bad at all. Tackle that man!'

The psychiatrist tutted as the opposing forward slipped a ridiculously poor tackle, and slotted an easy goal. The goal was an easy score because the goalkeeper was sitting on the ground with his eyes shut.

Simon repressed the desire to laugh. But if he didn't laugh he might cry. That was his brother out there: That was his brother out there: the plump schizophrenic in his early forties mumbling in the corner, by the flag. The knife-attacker. There was a security guard loitering at the far end of the pitch. Simon guessed he was probably armed this was a secure asylum. the plump schizophrenic in his early forties mumbling in the corner, by the flag. The knife-attacker. There was a security guard loitering at the far end of the pitch. Simon guessed he was probably armed this was a secure asylum.

The referee blew his whistle.

'Three-two!' said Bill, excitedly. 'That's great, good good. Let me go and get Tim.'

Half of Simon wanted to slip away right now. He'd done his duty and seen Tim if only from a distance and he could say his brother was alive and now he could quit, and go back to his son and the au pair and his wife and pretend that Tim didn't exist, pretend that Simon's whole family didn't have this same mad blood in their genes, pretend that the father didn't look briefly at the son at least once a day and think...Do you? Will you? What have you inherited? What have you inherited?

'Simon?'

Tim looked very pleased to see his sibling; Simon hugged his brother. Tim's heavy white thighs looked oddly vulnerable in his blue nylon soccer shorts.

'You look good, Timothy. How are you?'

'Oh, good, good good, excellent game, isn't it!' Tim was grinning impetuously.

Simon checked his brother's face; the hair was greyer, the cheeks were even fatter and yet Tim never seemed to really age. Did madness keep you young? Or maybe it was his image of Tim that was frozen in his own mind: the image of Tim with a knife in his hand, hacking at Mum, in the bedroom. All the blood. Pints of blood.

'You played very well,' said the journalist again, trying not to hate his older brother. It's not his fault. It's not his fault.

'Oh yes. Very good sporting chances. Are you here long there is a...yes. Ah yes doubtless. Yes.'

They both made a proper effort to chat, but sentences defeated Tim at every turn, and within a few minutes the dialogue had dwindled. Tim's attention had wandered elsewhere: gone a-blackberrying. Simon knew the distracted and pained expression all too well: his brother was hearing his voices. There were little roils of anxiety about his features, tics and blinks. Tim was trying to keep smiling but he was hearing things, all those confusing orders.

The pity welled in his brotherly heart, pity and hatred and love all at once. The sadness was drenching. He wanted to go; Tim would be here the rest of his life.

'OK, Tim, I have to go now.'

Tim offered a reproachful stare.

'Not long then? Didn't stay too long we must be busy. Busy as ever. Yes busy until...'

'Tim?'

'I'm busy too working of course. Excellent...inside the system.'

'Tim, listen. Dad sends his love.'

Tim's eyes seemed to mist with grief, standing here in the mild autumn sun by the lunatic asylum. Was his brother, appallingly, going to cry?

'Simon...?'

'Tim.'

'Rather, you know, doubtless, Mother and Father in South Africa. Simon. I...I...I made something. For you.'

'Sorry?'

Bill Fanthorpe had wandered over and was observing them from a couple of yards away.

Tim reached in the pocket of his nylon shorts. And pulled out a small object, crudely carved from wood.

'Gusty. Awfully fun. Remember Gusty remember him? I made a dog hope you like it.'

The younger brother examined the miniature wooden toy. He understood now. When they were kids, the family had owned a springer spaniel, Augustus 'Gusty'. Simon and Tim had spent hours and days, entire holidays, playing with Gusty, going for rambles on the Heath. Running down sunny beaches.

It was a symbol of happier times, before the darkness of Tim's schizophrenia.

'Thank you, Tim. Thank you...very much.'

He had an urge to throw the stupid toy into the bushes. He also wanted to cherish the object, fiercely. There was an unbearable poignancy in the toy's small, pathetic crudeness.

Bill Fanthorpe stepped closer. 'Tim was doing craftwork. Thought you might like it...'

'Yes,' said Simon. 'It's lovely. Thanks.'

Bill stepped back; the journalist hugged his brother one more time and then Tim beamed his mad wide anxious smile and the younger sibling got the usual horrible sense that his brother resembled his own boy, Conor it was the same smile, the very same smile. the very same smile.

Girding himself, Simon resisted the urge to sprint down the lane; he shook hands with Fanthorpe, and slowly walked to the car. And as he walked back to the car he felt his soul keening with grief. He still held the little toy in his hand. He took out his wallet and slipped the toy inside, next to the clasp of hair he kept: from when Conor was a baby.

The sadness was so intense that he was relieved to make it to the car and relieved to be stuck in traffic thirty minutes later; stuck in the eternal gridlock of the North Circular. The reliability of this horrible congestion was somehow soothing. So utterly predictable.

His car had been stationary ten minutes, spattered by some September drizzle, when his phone rang.

It was Edith Tait.

She told him she had just had an enormous surprise. She was mentioned in Julie Charpentier's will.

This didn't seem so surprising. Staring at the car in front, he asked the old woman to explain.

'It's the amount, Mister Quinn, the actual sum. I called the police fella to tell him, but he wasn't in...so, well, I thought you might like tae know. So I tried you.'

Simon changed a gear, his car moved forward three inches.

'Go on. How much?'

'Well now.' Edith laughed, self-consciously. 'It's a wee bit embarra.s.sing.'

'Edith?'

The Scots lady drew a breath, then answered.

'Julie left me half a million pounds.'

The weather was worsening. Swathes of sour rainfall swept across the stalled and angry traffic.

14.

Amy was phoning Jose, from the end of the breakfast terrace. David watched: her animated gestures, the way her blonde hair was harped by the freshening breeze. He could tell by the frown on her face that the conversation was odd, or difficult. She sat down. He leaned across.

'What did Jose say? Did you ask him about my parents? Is this all about my parents?'

Amy laid the phone on the table. 'Well...it was very difficult to work out. He was rambling, almost incoherent. Worse than when you showed him the map.'

'And...?'

'He said we had to get away. That Miguel was extremely dangerous. extremely dangerous. He also said not to trust the police. As I thought. And he said Miguel was probably coming after us.' He also said not to trust the police. As I thought. And he said Miguel was probably coming after us.'

David growled his impatience.

'Is that all? We know that know that.'

'Yes. But he also seemed...odd.' Amy set her cardiganned elbows on the tablecloth, which was strewn with golden flakes of croissant. 'Jose told me he was leaving. Going into hiding.'

'Jose? Why?'

Her shrug expressed perplexity. 'No idea. But he was scared.'

'Of Miguel?'

'Perhaps. The police. Wish I knew.'

A raindrop hit the paper tablecloth, a grey spot next to the phone.

'Well I'm not b.l.o.o.d.y not b.l.o.o.d.y running away,' David said. 'I need to know what happened to Mum and Dad. If this is all linked...G.o.d knows how.' He stared directly into her fine blue eyes. Not unlike his mother's. 'Did he say nothing about my mum and dad, at all?' running away,' David said. 'I need to know what happened to Mum and Dad. If this is all linked...G.o.d knows how.' He stared directly into her fine blue eyes. Not unlike his mother's. 'Did he say nothing about my mum and dad, at all?'

She murmured.

'No, he didn't. I'm sorry.'